Waterdeep

11 Dragonspear Castle

The rise was so gentle Adon hardly knew he was walking uphill. Halfway up, the cleric stopped and shifted the saddlebags with the tablet to his other shoulder. It was the most exciting thing he had done in almost four hours.

Along with Kelemvor and Midnight, Adon had been traveling along the desolate road for five days. To the west, coarse stems of tall golden grass rose from a prairie of wet, slushy snow. A mile to the east stood the dark cliffs of the High Moor. Ahead, running mile after mile, was the straight and endlessly boring road to Waterdeep. Adon had never thought he would long to feel a steep mountainside beneath his feet, but right now he would have gladly traded a mile of easy road for twenty miles of precarious mountain trail.

Despite a hard morning’s march, Adon’s toes were shriveled and numb. Three inches of slushy snow covered the road, soaking through even the well-oiled boots High Horn’s quartermaster had provided. Judging from the pearly complexion of the sky, more snow would soon fall.

Even accounting for their northward progress, the season had changed early this year. A white shroud already blanketed the High Moor, and sheets of ice crowned the streams that poured from the wild country’s heart.

Adon felt as if the nature gods were conspiring to make his journey difficult and cold. It was far more likely, he realized, that the unseasonable cold was a reflection of the absence of those gods. Without their supervision, nature was running rampant, randomly changing as one mindless force gained supremacy over another.

The unpredictable weather was just one more reason he and his companions had to succeed in their quest. Without an orderly progression of the seasons, it would not be long before the farmers lost their crops and whole populations starved.

As Adon pondered the importance of his mission and the dreariness of completing it, a sharp bark sounded from the other side of the rise. He immediately turned and waved Kelemvor and Midnight off the road, then began searching for a hiding place himself. The land was so barren he finally had to settle for kneeling behind a scraggly bush.

A band of gray appeared at the top of the rise. The cleric squinted and looked closer. Twelve wolves were walking abreast in a straight line. Another rank followed the first, and then another and another, until a whole column of wolves was marching down the road in perfect step.

As the column advanced, Adon wondered whether he should run or continue hiding behind his pathetic bush. One of the wolves barked a sharp command. The first line drew abreast of the cleric’s hiding place, then each wolf snapped its head to face him in a perfect dress left maneuver. Each succeeding line repeated the drill as it passed.

Adon gave up hiding and returned to the roadside, shaking his head in disbelief. Kelemvor and Midnight joined him.

“Nice parade work,” the fighter noted, observing the wolves with a critical eye. His voice was as casual as if the trio had been watching an army of men instead of animals.

With studied disinterest, Midnight asked, “I wonder where they’re off to?”

“Baldur’s Gate or Elturel,” Kelemvor observed, turning and looking to the south.

“How would you know that?” Adon demanded, frowning at the warrior.

“You haven’t heard?” Midnight asked. She lifted her brows to indicate incredulity at Adon’s ignorance.

“The sheep are revolting in the south,” Kelemvor finished.

The cleric put his hands on his hips. “What are—”

Both Kelemvor and Midnight burst into fits of laughter. Adon flushed angrily, and turned toward the road.

“There’s nothing funny about the breakdown of Order,” he snapped.

Midnight and Kelemvor only laughed harder.

Adon turned away, but after five minutes of watching the column pass, he chuckled. “Sheep revolt,” he muttered. “Where did you come up with that?”

“Why else would you need an army of wolves?” Kelemvor asked, grinning.

Finally, the last rank of wolves passed, leaving the trail black and muddy. Kelemvor stepped back onto the road and sank past the ankles in cold muck.

He cursed, then said, “We need horses.”

“True, but what can we do?” Adon asked, stepping into the road. “We’ll never find horses out here, and if we stray off the road, we’re likely to get very lost.”

In five days of marching, they had met only one small band of six hardy warriors. Although the small company had been kind enough to confirm that Dragonspear Castle lay ahead, they had refused to part with even a single horse.

“At this rate, the Realms will be dead a year before we make Dragonspear Castle,” Kelemvor complained, his humor now completely drained.

“Don’t be so sure,” Adon responded. “We should be close. It might be over the top of that rise.” The cleric was determined not to let the fighter’s sudden bad mood infect him.

Kelemvor snorted and kicked at the mud, sending a black spray toward the roadside. “Close? We’re not within a hundred miles of the castle.”

Adon stifled an acid reply. Despite Midnight’s return, the cleric still found himself serving as company leader. It was not a position he enjoyed, but Kelemvor had shown more interest in keeping Midnight company than in assuming command. As for the mage, she seemed content to let someone else guide them, though it should be her, by all rights, who was the group’s leader. Adon didn’t understand why the magic-user shirked the responsibility, though he suspected the reason might concern Kelemvor. Perhaps she feared the fighter could not love a taskmaster. Whatever the cause, Adon was left to play the captain. He felt distinctly uncomfortable in the role, but he was determined to do his best.

“I’m sure Dragonspear Castle is close by,” Adon said, hoping to buoy Kelemvor’s spirits. “All we’ve got to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other.”

“You put one foot in front of the other,” Kelemvor snapped. He turned to Midnight. “You got us away from Boareskyr with a wave of your hand. Why don’t you try again?”

Midnight shook her head. “I’ve thought of that. But it’s risky to teleport—especially with magic so fouled up. I only did it because we would have died anyway. We’re lucky we didn’t appear in the middle of the Great Desert.”

“How do we know we didn’t?” Kelemvor muttered.

Midnight stepped onto the edge of the muddy road and started up the rise. “I’m sure,” she said.

Midnight was relieved that the teleport incantation had worked, and not only because it had saved their lives. It was the first time that her magic had worked correctly since High Horn. In Yellow Snake Pass, her wall of fire had resulted in harmless stalks of smoke, and at the ford she had animated the ropes by accident. Even at Boareskyr Bridge, her first incantation had failed pathetically, producing a ball of light in place of a lightning bolt.

The mage had feared that she misunderstood the change in her relationship to magic. When she summoned an incantation, only words and gestures appeared in her mind-never any indication of the proper material component or what to do with it. At first, this had disturbed Midnight and she had feared that she was misinterpreting something. But each time she tried to cast a spell, there was never a need for material components. The magic-user had finally decided that, because she tapped the magic weave directly, no intermediary agent—like a spell component—was required to transmit the mystical energy.

The horizon suddenly seemed distant and Midnight realized that she had reached the crest of the gentle rise. She paused to look around. Even though it was barely noticeable, the rise was the highest ground nearby and afforded a view of the terrain ahead.

Twenty yards behind the magic-user, Adon was still trying to encourage Kelemvor. “For all we know, we’re only ten miles away from Dragonspear Castle.”

“Actually,” Midnight interrupted, studying a sprawling ruin to the right of the road, “I’d say we’re closer than that.”

Adon and Kelemvor looked up, then rushed to her side. Nestled against the base of the High Moor, atop three small hillocks, stood the deteriorating walls and toppled spires of an abandoned citadel. From this distance, it was difficult to say how large the castle was, but it might have rivaled the fortress at High Horn.

“What have we here?” Kelemvor asked. He was looking down the road, but neither Midnight nor Adon noticed.

“Dragonspear Castle, what else?” Adon replied. He had no way of confirming his guess, but he suspected there were no other ruins of such size on the way to Waterdeep.

“Not the castle,” Kelemvor snapped. He pointed down the road, where, over a mile away, ten caravan drivers had just left the trail. They were slowly fleeing toward the ruined castle, pursued by a dozen sluggish attackers.

“Someone’s attacking a caravan!” Midnight exclaimed.

“The battle’s not moving very fast,” Adon said, watching the two groups. “Maybe the attackers are undead.”

“You’re probably right,” Kelemvor said, turning to look at the cleric. “And the drivers are moving slowly because they’re probably tired after a long chase.” The warrior’s eyes betrayed his desire to intercede.

Adon silently cursed his companion. While the trio could easily destroy one or two undead, there were a dozen attacking the caravan. Even with Midnight’s magic, they could not defeat so many creatures. He wished Kelemvor would consider the value of their own lives, as most men would. But the fighter was no longer a common man—if he ever had been. A common man would not be looking for the entrance to the Realm of the Dead, nor would he have undertaken a mission that made such a journey necessary.

“We can’t get involved,” Adon said thoughtfully, pretending to think aloud. “If we get killed, the Realms will perish.”

Adon suspected that Midnight would not involve herself with the caravan if he said not to. But Kelemvor would resent an order to abandon the drivers. Therefore, the cleric wanted the fighter to make the decision for himself. Besides, Adon had no wish to let the burden of abandoning the caravan rest upon his shoulders alone.

Midnight studied the scene for a full minute, weighing Adon’s words against her desire to help. If they abandoned the drivers, she would feel guilty for the rest of her life. But the mage also knew that helping could endanger the tablet.

“We can’t interfere,” she said, turning away. “There’s too much at risk.”

Adon breathed a sigh of relief.

“I don’t know about you two,” Kelemvor grumbled, eyeing his companions with disapproval, “but I can’t abandon innocents to their deaths. I’ve done that too often—”

“Think with your head, not your heart, Kel.” Midnight’s words were surprisingly gentle. She laid a hand upon his arm. “With the gods themselves against us, we cannot—”

“But they’ll die!” Kelemvor objected, pulling his arm free. “And if you allow that, you’re no better than Cyric.”

Nothing could anger the mage more than being compared to Cyric. “Do what you want,” she snapped. “But do it without me!”

Midnight’s outburst upset Kelemvor, but he didn’t let that prevent him from starting toward the battle. Before Kelemvor had taken a dozen steps, Adon called, “Wait!”

The cleric could not allow the company to separate again. No matter what danger lay ahead, they stood a better chance of survival if they faced it together. “We can’t let the undead into the castle, or we’ll be cut off from the Realm of the Dead.”

“True,” Midnight muttered grudgingly. She didn’t know whether to be angry that Kelemvor had forced Adon to change his mind, or to be happy that the cleric had found a way to justify saving the caravan.

“As slow as the battle’s moving, we can reach the castle before the undead.” Adon sighed. “Perhaps we’ll find the inner ward in defensible condition.”

“If we do,” Kelemvor said, “we’ll let the drivers in and keep the undead outside. That’s the caravan’s best chance—”

“And ours,” Midnight agreed. She had misgivings about intervening in the fight, but at least Kelemvor was willing to do it safely. “If we’re going to do this, we’d better hurry.” The three companions started toward the castle at a trot.

Ten minutes later, a lone rider approached the top of the rise. After his one-time friends had abandoned him, Cyric had crawled off the road. There, sustained by the vigor of the sword, he had fallen into a slumber more deep and profound than he believed possible. It had not been a peaceful sleep, filled as it was by the stench of death and the screeches of the damned, but it had been a restorative one.

Then, after two days of walking, he had met the same six riders that Midnight’s company had passed. The thief recited a cleverly fabricated story of how the trio had robbed him and left him for dead. The riders sympathetically reported that the scoundrels were on the road ahead. Despite Cyric’s clever story, however, they refused to give him one of their horses. Instead, they offered to allow him to ride with them until they reached the nearest stable. That same night, the thief had killed all six—five of them in their sleep. Then, taking a horse, a bow, and a quiver of arrows, he had turned north after Midnight’s company and the tablet.

When Cyric reached the top of the rise, he realized that he had caught his enemies just in time. Dragonspear Castle stood to the right of the road, and Midnight’s company was just slipping into the outer ward. Then the thief saw the caravan moving toward the gate, their awkward attackers following. Noting that there was about to be a battle, Cyric strung his stolen bow and spurred his stolen mount. He did not want to miss the chance to put a few arrows in his old friends’ backs.

In the outer ward of Dragonspear Castle, Midnight had almost given up any hope of defending the crumbled fortress. The outer wall was so pocked with holes and breaches that nothing short of an army could man it. Fortunately, the inner ward was in better condition. All four of its towers still stood, and the walls remained more or less intact. The inner gate hung askew on its hinges, but looked as though it could still be closed.

After a quick inspection, Kelemvor declared, “We can hold the inner ward. Midnight, go to the southwest tower and let us know when the caravan reaches the outer wall.” The warrior stepped behind the inner gate and inspected the hinges. “Adon and I will close this when the time comes.”

Midnight quickly climbed to the top of the wall, then went to the southwest tower. It was the tallest and most secure of Dragonspear’s remaining towers. A spiral stairway ran along the wall facing the courtyard, and the only entrances to its rooms were from the staircase. The stairway itself had only two entrances, one from the top of the wall and one from the courtyard. At one time, each entrance could be sealed in case the courtyard or walls were overrun, but the doors had been battered off their hinges long ago.

Midnight entered the tower’s staircase and climbed to the top room. It had once served as the office of someone important, perhaps the steward or bailiff. A heavy, age-worn desk sat near the door, and the remnants of tapestries, now moth-eaten and faded, hung on two walls. In the center of the room hung a rusting iron chandelier, three of its sockets still containing the stubs of ancient and yellowed candles. So that the chandelier could be lit easily, it was suspended by a grimy rope running through a pulley system and tied off to an eyehook in the wall.

The room had two small windows. One overlooked the outer ward, and through it, Midnight could see the path from the outer gate to the inner. Through the other window, she could see the inner ward and the inner gate.

Kelemvor and Adon had found a long beam and were using it to lever the gate closed. Midnight could see that there would always be a gap between the gate and the wall, but she still felt more secure. The gate would certainly make the inner ward defensible.

Despite her increased sense of safety, though, Midnight was upset with Kelemvor for dragging the company into this conflict. To satisfy the warrior’s sense of virtue, he was risking all of their lives and letting the fate of the world hang in the balance. Still, Midnight wasn’t surprised. The fighter had always been a shortsighted, stubborn man, and that had not changed when Bane lifted his curse. The only difference was that, instead of seeking payment for even the slightest favor, he now insisted upon correcting each and every iniquity he encountered.

Even if it was frustrating and inconvenient, Midnight thought she could live with Kelemvor’s stubbornness, but only after the tablets were returned to the Planes. Until then, even if it meant distancing herself from her lover, she could not let her feelings interfere with her duty any longer.

But at the moment, Midnight’s duty was to make sure her friends were not surprised when the caravan arrived. As long as she continued watching Kelemvor and Adon, she was neglecting that duty. The magic-user turned to the other window.

Fifteen minutes later, the first caravan driver reached the outer gate, leading a string of four frightened packhorses. Midnight saw no sign of his undead pursuers, though she had not expected to. Zombies were slow and easy to outrun—at least in the short term. The trouble was that they kept coming, eventually exhausting their prey.

Midnight went to the rear window of the tower. “They’re at the outer wall!” she called.

Adon and Kelemvor, who had just pried the heavy gates into place, drew their weapons. They stood to one side of the narrow gap. In his imagination, Kelemvor was already listening to the drivers proclaim their gratitude.

But Adon was not thinking about the drivers at all. The saddlebags containing the tablet were slung over his shoulder. He wished he had given the artifact to Midnight for safekeeping. In addition to being exposed to theft, it would only get in the way during battle. Unfortunately, it was too late to do anything about that now.

Midnight returned to the front window. The ten caravan drivers were lurking at the outer gate, peering into the ward as if they feared the inside of Dragonspear Castle more than what pursued them. They were a strange crew, wearing striped, hooded cloaks that kept their faces hidden in dark hollows.

Midnight was surprised at their lack of urgency. The undead could not be so far behind that they had time to waste.

Finally, she yelled, “You in the caravan! Run for the keep!”

Without any hurry, the drivers started forward. The caravan was halfway to the inner gate when the first corpse clambered through a gap in the outer wall. The zombie wore the same striped cloak as the drivers, though its hood was thrown back to reveal a coarse braid of black hair, eyes lacking any spark of life, and doughy gray skin.

Midnight assumed a terrible creature must have befallen the caravan, slaying half or more of its number and setting the dead against their fellows. Four more zombies climbed into the outer ward and continued after the caravan. The drivers didn’t look back. Instead, they concentrated upon leading their horses toward the inner gate.

Down in the ward, Adon and Kelemvor laboriously opened the gate a little more to admit the horses as well as their masters. The zombies were pursuing so slowly that Kelemvor had no doubt that there would be plenty of time to close the gate after the drivers reached safety.

From the tower window, Midnight watched as the last zombie climbed through the outer wall. The chase seemed wrong to her, however. The whole thing had been too slow and too relaxed. Nor did she like how the drivers had responded to her offer of help—without a word of acknowledgment or thanks.

As the first driver reached the gate, an overpowering stench of decay and death filled Kelemvor’s nostrils. At first, the odor puzzled him, for the zombies were not close enough for him to smell them. Then, thinking about how slowly the caravan moved, the warrior began to suspect the drivers were not what they appeared to be.

“Close the gate!” he yelled to Adon, grabbing the beam they had used to lever the door into its current position.

“What do you mean?” the cleric demanded, confused. Like Kelemvor, he smelled something foul. But he assumed it was merely the horses—or something in their packs.

The green-eyed fighter cursed and pushed one end of the beam toward the cleric. “They’re zombies! All of them! Now, close the gate.”

Comprehension dawning in his eyes, Adon took his side of the beam and turned to position it beneath the heavy gate.

But he was too late. The first zombie pushed through the gap. Beneath the driver’s striped hood, Adon saw a bloated face and lifeless eyes. The thing’s thin lips were pulled back in a grotesque grin, revealing a set of broken yellow teeth.

It raised an arm and clawed at the cleric.

Adon ducked and grabbed his mace, but dropped the beam. For a second the cleric wished that he was still in Sune’s grace, still able to turn undead. That wish passed as two more drivers pushed through the gap.

Kelemvor grabbed his sword and hacked at the first zombie’s neck. The thing’s head rolled off its shoulders neatly, but the body remained standing. It began swinging its fists blindly. Then the next two zombies attacked, both focusing on Adon. One landed a savage blow in the cleric’s ribs, and the other backhanded him so violently that his ears rang.

“Run!” Kelemvor yelled. He slashed a zombie’s arm off, then backed away a step.

Adon started to obey, but stumbled over the beam and nearly fell. He swung his mace, hitting the closest zombie. Bone cracked and the creature’s temple caved in, but it did not fall. Two more drivers stepped forward, one to either side of the cleric.

Midnight heard several dull thuds as her friends’ weapons struck the zombies, then ran to the window overlooking the inner ward. She saw Kelemvor hacking at three of the undead that surrounded Adon. Two more drivers were pushing through the gate, and the mage knew plenty more were approaching outside.

Kelemvor slashed, tearing the cloak from the head of a driver. Its eyes were dull and lifeless, and its skin doughy and gray. The fighter slashed again and the driver lost an arm—then pressed forward to counterattack.

Midnight knew her misgivings had been justified: Adon and Kelemvor were as good as dead and the tablet lost, unless she could pluck them from the midst of battle. Remembering the heavy chandelier in the middle of the room, the mage went to the wall and released the rope. The chandelier crashed to the floor. She drew her dagger and cut the rope free, then hastily coiled it.

Down in the courtyard, Adon thought he was doomed. The cleric was surrounded by three zombies that seemed impervious to his mace—or at least immune to the damage he was dealing with the weapon. More undead were entering the courtyard every few seconds. He smashed a driver’s ribs and felt them break, then cringed as the zombie raked at his face with four filthy fingers.

To Adon’s left, Kelemvor’s sword found a target, beheading a zombie and temporarily clearing a small path between the warrior and the cleric. Adon seized the chance to fling the tablet to Kelemvor.

The saddlebags struck the fighter in the shoulder, then tangled around his left arm. Intent upon recovering the artifact, the zombies turned toward the tablet and left Adon alone. Although Adon and Kelemvor did not know this, before his destruction, Bhaal had told Myrkul where Midnight kept the tablet. Accordingly, the Lord of the Dead had instructed the zombies to recover any saddlebags the heroes carried with them.

Although Adon did not know the source of the zombies’ information, it took him only an instant to realize they wanted the tablet and knew where it was. “Run!” he called to Kelemvor, stepping forward and cracking a corpse’s skull. “Get out of here!”

Kelemvor thought his friend was merely being noble. “No!” the fighter cried, slicing into a zombie.

The thing did not fall, then two more stepped to its side. All three undead lashed out at the warrior, and he had no choice except to back away. Nevertheless, still having failed to notice that Adon was no longer under attack, Kelemvor yelled, “I got you into this, and I’ll get you out of it!”

“I doubt that,” Midnight yelled. She stood atop the wall behind Kelemvor, the hastily coiled rope in her hands. The magic-user dropped one end of the rope toward the courtyard. She ran the other end through an arrow loop in the closest merlon and began tying it off.

Kelemvor slashed at a leg, slicing deep into an attacker’s knee. The zombie pressed forward, completely unaffected by a wound that would have crippled a living man. The fighter’s other two attackers landed powerful blows in his ribs, then two more zombies crowded around and began flailing at him. The warrior retreated another few steps, and a moment later his back was pressed against the wall.

Seeing what Midnight intended and realizing that he could do little to help Kelemvor, Adon screamed, “Up the rope, Kel! I’m safe!” With that, he turned and ran for the nearest stairway.

Midnight finished her knot, then returned to the wall’s edge. The rope ended eight feet off the ground, easily within Kelemvor’s reach. However, the warrior was so busy fighting zombies that he could not start climbing.

The magic-user climbed onto the rope and slid down, stopping a foot before its end. Midnight knew she lacked the strength to pull the warrior out of battle, but she hoped that with her aid, Kelemvor could grab the rope and quickly climb out of the zombies’ reach. “Kel, give me your hand!” she cried.

The warrior glanced up and saw Midnight’s outstretched hand, then the zombies landed several blows. He swung his sword viciously, buying himself a foot of breathing space. Immediately, he lifted the saddlebags and placed them in Midnight’s hand.

“Take it!” Kelemvor yelled.

At first, Midnight didn’t want to obey. But then the zombies turned their attention to her, simply trying to walk over the warrior. She accepted the saddlebags, slung them over her shoulder, then started up the rope. The warrior stayed on the ground and continued slashing at zombies.

A few seconds later, Adon arrived at the top of the wall and helped Midnight climb up the last few feet. After she was safely on the wall, she turned and yelled, “I’m safe, Kel. Come on!”

The warrior immediately sheathed his sword and, ignoring the zombies, turned and grabbed the rope. He pulled himself to the top of the wall as quickly as he could. Midnight cut the rope behind him, then said, “Follow me!”

She led the way back to the tower, entering the first doorway she came to. Though this room lacked an iron chandelier and an age-worn desk, it was similar to the one from which she had taken the rope.

As soon as they were inside, Adon asked, “What now?”

“We’ve got to think of a plan,” Midnight replied, sheathing her dagger. “And we’d better do it before the zombies find a way to get up here.”

Kelemvor went to the window and watched the zombies stumble around the ward. “I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said. “I just thought—oh, damn it, I just didn’t think.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Adon responded, gripping the fighter’s shoulder. “Those zombies would have attacked no matter what you did. Somebody sent them after the tablet.”

“It was Myrkul,” Midnight sighed. “I told you that he and Bhaal were working together. Well, he must have tried to contact Bhaal and discovered that I had escaped with the tablet.”

“Whether Myrkul sent them or not,” Kelemvor grumbled, “I should be skinned and roasted alive.” He took the saddlebags from Adon and started to remove the tablet. “Maybe I can trick them into following me.”

The scarred cleric pushed the tablet back into a saddlebag. “No, Kel. We stand a better chance of surviving if we stick together.” Adon had purposely left the tablet in the warrior’s hands. In the coming battle, he thought it best to have it protected by their most capable fighter.

Kelemvor frowned and, when Adon did not take the saddlebags back, threw them over his shoulder.

Sensing the fighter’s mood, Adon added, “It’s better things worked out this way. Otherwise, the zombies would have attacked us by surprise.”

“Adon’s right,” Midnight added, touching Kelemvor’s arm. There was nothing to be gained by making the warrior feel bad, and she did not enjoy watching him vilify himself. “Let’s just see if we can find the entrance to the Realm of the Dead. After all, we were headed here anyway.”

“Where do we start?” Kelemvor asked, peering out the window. To his alarm, the warrior saw that many of the zombies had stumbled onto the stairs and had reached the top of the wall. Worse still, they were coming toward the tower.

The fighter stepped away from the window, saying, “We’d better get out—”

A loud clatter rang through the room, startling all three of the companions. Midnight grabbed Kelemvor’s arm and jerked him out the window, then pointed at an arrow lying on the floor. On the stone wall was a fresh scratch where the arrow had struck the stone. Kelemvor nonchalantly picked it up. “Zombies don’t use bows,” he said. “Where’d this come from?”

“We’ll figure that out later,” Adon said, fearing the zombies were only one part of Myrkul’s trap. “Let’s get out of here!” He led the way down the stairs.

They descended the spiral staircase past three rooms, not pausing until they reached ground level. Here, the heroes took a moment to peer into the room on the ground floor. Its only door was the one they were now standing in.

“We’d better go down to the basement,” Adon noted frantically, continuing down the dark staircase.

“Wait! We’ll be trapped!” Kelemvor objected.

“We’re already trapped,” Midnight replied, following the cleric.

“And the zombies will probably go up first since they saw you and Midnight go up the wall,” Adon added. “Maybe we can sneak out when they climb the stairs.”

Kelemvor nodded and Adon led the way down into a dim, dank basement. The muffled whisper of running water echoed from the walls, though no one could identify the source of the sound. High in the middle of the inner wall, a small window opened into the inner ward at ground level. The little light the room received entered through this opening.

Adon briefly considered trying to escape out the window, but quickly rejected the idea. It was large enough to provide ventilation and light, but far too small to accommodate Kelemvor’s broad shoulders—or even Midnight’s, for that matter.

The room contained only moldering debris. There were sacks of spoiled grain and casks of rancid wine—obviously left by wanderers who had used the tower as temporary lodging—empty, rotting barrels and a coil of moldy rope attached to a worm-eaten bucket. The room’s wooden floor was decayed and spongy.

While Adon and Kelemvor listened to the zombies ascend the stairs, Midnight explored the room, occasionally picking away pieces of plank with the tip of her dagger.

After five minutes, Adon shook his head and cursed. “The zombies aren’t doing what we’d hoped, Midnight. The ones from the courtyard are still on the ground floor.” The cleric paused and looked at Kelemvor. “We’re trapped.”

“I’ll lead the way up,” the fighter growled. “Maybe we can fight our way out.”

“Not yet,” Midnight said, puzzling over the floor. The other rooms in the tower had not had any rot, and she didn’t understand why this one should be any different. Then she thought of the bucket and the rope, which were similar to the ones used in wells. She went to the center of the room. “Kel, use your sword to pry up one of these planks! Quickly!”

Although puzzled, the warrior did as asked. A section of floor three feet square came up. The thin, muffled whisper echoing from the walls changed to a quiet roar.

“What is it?” Kelemvor asked.

“An underground stream!” Adon answered, kneeling next to the warrior.

Pointing at the bucket and rope, Midnight added, “It’s an emergency water supply, used in case of siege.”

Adon smiled and pointed into the hole. “The zombies won’t follow us down there!”

“If we have the courage to go ourselves.” Kelemvor stuck his head into the blackness.

“What do you see?” Midnight asked.

“A cavern,” he muttered. “But it’s dark. I can’t see the bottom.” He pulled his head out.

Midnight kneeled next to her friends and looked into the hole. She could see nothing but darkness, but it sounded as though the stream running under the tower was fairly large.

Kelemvor grabbed the rope and bucket. “I guess we’ll have to trust this thing.” He tied one end of the rope around a beam on the ceiling, then grabbed it and pulled himself off the floor to test the strength of his knot.

Adon scowled. “Perhaps we’d be wiser to look for something—”

The room grew a shade darker, as though something was blocking the light. Without finishing his sentence, Adon turned toward the cellar window and saw a man’s form kneeling on the ground outside. The man had a familiar hawkish nose.

“Look out!” Adon screamed, realizing he was the only one who saw Cyric. The scarred cleric lunged at Kelemvor and shoved him to the ground.

Midnight turned. Something buzzed past her ear and struck Adon with a wet thump. The scarred cleric groaned loudly and dropped to his knees beside her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Midnight asked.

Adon didn’t answer. His eyes rolled back into his head, then he pitched forward into the hole. Midnight lunged and caught him by the shoulder and the bloody shaft that protruded from his ribs. The stick snapped and the cleric’s body slipped from the mage’s grasp. A moment later, she heard a distant splash.

“Adon!” she gasped, unable to comprehend how she had come to be holding a broken arrow shaft in her blood-smeared hand.

Kelemvor understood perfectly. He was looking at Cyric, who was nocking another arrow. “I’ll kill you!” the fighter roared, rushing to thrust his sword out the window.

“You missed your chance,” the thief replied, easily retreating out of Kelemvor’s reach. “But you should know that I was aiming for you just then. That foppish cleric got in the way.”

“I haven’t missed my chance,” Midnight hissed, turning to face the window. At the sound of Cyric’s voice, her heart had turned as cold as ice, and she had thought of the perfect way to kill him. The incantation for a cone of cold appeared in the mage’s mind. She pointed her finger at the window and called upon her magic.

Cyric hit the ground and rolled, expecting to meet some hideous magical death. Instead, a wave of black frost rolled out of the window. As the thief cringed on the ground, the frost coalesced into a black ball and zipped past him, ricocheting from one of the keep’s walls to another. Wherever it touched, the stones sprouted hoarfrost and icicles, then crumbled to dust. The ball finally bounced over the wall and, leaving a trail of icy destruction in its wake, went bounding off into the High Moor.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the hawk-nosed thief scrambled away from the window. Now that Kelemvor and Midnight knew he was on their trail, it would be much more difficult to kill them.

After watching Midnight’s spell misfire, Kelemvor peered out the window. Cyric was nowhere in sight. “You missed,” he reported, still too numbed by Adon’s death to react.

Midnight did not respond. She lay curled up on the floor, gasping for breath and sweating uncontrollably. Her body ached from head to toe, and the magic-user felt as though willpower alone held her spirit inside her body. She recalled Bhaal’s warning that she would burn herself up if she did not learn how to wield Mystra’s magic.

That was exactly what it felt like she had done. Any spell wore a magic-user down, and part of a mage’s training involved increasing her body’s tolerance to magical energies. But Midnight, newly gifted with the ability to call upon a limitless supply of magic, did not yet have the endurance to withstand such energies. In theory, she could call upon her magic to do almost anything, but she now understood that the effort might leave her a lifeless husk of flesh and energy.

When he turned around, that was exactly what Kelemvor feared he was seeing. “Midnight!” he gasped.

For the first time since Adon had entrusted it to him, Kelemvor set the Tablet of Fate aside. He dropped the saddlebags, knelt beside Midnight, and took her into his arms. “How can I help?” the fighter asked softly. “What can I do?”

Midnight wanted to tell him to hold her, to keep her warm, but she was afraid to speak. Right now, she needed her strength just to stay conscious.

Kelemvor heard the shuffling of heavy steps on the stairway, and he knew the zombies had discovered their hiding place. His first thought was to charge the stairs, but he knew the undead would tear him to pieces. That would leave Midnight alone and at their mercy.

Instead, he cut the bucket away from the rope and threw it aside. The fighter tied the free end of the rope around Midnight’s waist. He intended to lower her into the cavern, then climb down after her.

He quickly realized he did not have time. The first zombie appeared in the door just as he slipped the mage into the hole. Kelemvor ignored the thing and began lowering Midnight. Two more of the walking corpses entered the room.

Midnight only knew that Kelemvor was lowering her into the darkness and that her strength was slowly returning. With the cavern walls echoing its bubbles and gurgles back toward her, the stream sounded incredibly large, more like a small river.

A few moments later, her descent stopped and she found herself hanging in darkness. Though it sounded as if she were only a few feet above the stream, there was no way for the mage to confirm or deny that suspicion. Midnight looked up and saw a dim square of light. There were forms dancing around it, but she could not make out any details.

Back in the tower’s basement, the first zombie ignored Kelemvor and picked up the saddlebags containing the Tablet of Fate. The fighter finished lowering Midnight, then grabbed his sword and hacked at the zombie. The thing’s arm fell off and it dropped the tablet. But before Kelemvor could retrieve the artifact, the zombie’s fellows joined it and all three attacked.

The fighter slashed at them to no avail. He connected solidly with the one whose arm he had already lopped off, opening a gash in its abdomen and temporarily stunning it. Heedless of their own safety, the other two corpses closed in, flailing wildly.

Forced to retreat away from the tablet, Kelemvor stumbled into the pit in the middle of the room. He grabbed the rope to keep from falling, then leveled a vicious slash at one of his attackers. The zombie’s head flopped off its neck and dropped to the floor. Another of the undead threw itself at the hand Kelemvor was using to hold onto the rope. The fighter instinctively slashed and connected. Then the stroke continued past the zombie’s body and the warrior could not draw back quickly enough to avoid cutting the rope.

Midnight heard Kelemvor scream, then the rope popped and went slack. She dropped into the stream, felt the current grab her, then began fighting to keep her head above water. Though she was still exhausted from the misfired spell, she knew that she had to find a reservoir of strength or drown.

Two splashes sounded to Midnight’s left as Kelemvor and the sword he had dropped hit the water in quick succession. The mage tried to swim toward the disturbance, but she was too weak and the current was too strong.

A moment later, Kelemvor called to her. “Midnight? Where are you?”

“Here,” she croaked. In the rushing water, she barely heard her own voice and knew it would not be audible to her lover. Midnight tried to swim toward the fighter, but the stream simply swept her away.

Kelemvor had more strength than Midnight, but he didn’t try to swim out of the current. He knew that the mage had to be downstream and was determined not to lose her. Allowing the tablet to fall into Myrkul’s hands was bad enough, but Kelemvor was unwilling to face life without Midnight.

The warrior swam downstream with all his might. He paused every now and then to cross the current, hoping to find Midnight. It was a good plan, but the fighter had underestimated the power of his strokes. He was quickly so far ahead of the mage that he stood no chance of meeting her.

Kelemvor continued his search for fifteen minutes before growing so exhausted that he could only concentrate on survival. For another quarter-hour, the stream swept the fighter and the magic-user farther into darkness. Sometimes it rushed into long passages completely filled with water, and both Midnight and Kelemvor believed they would drown before they bobbed back to the surface, exhausted and gasping for breath. At other times, they bounced against rocks or the cave’s walls. Despite the pain of such encounters, though, they always clutched and grasped at the slick surfaces, hoping to latch onto something and pull free of the current.

Neither one drowned nor pulled free. Both Kelemvor and Midnight continued into the darkness, cold and blind, aware of nothing but the rush of the stream, the weight of their soggy clothes, and the fetid water they swallowed with every other breath.

After a time—Kelemvor could not say how long he’d been in the water or how many miles he had floated—the stream straightened its course and grew more quiet. The fighter started to remove his clothes, for their weight was only contributing to his fatigue. But a strange slurping sound echoed off the cavern walls, and Kelemvor paused to hold his head above the water and listen. The noise was coming from the middle of the channel.

He swam across the stream, then the current grew faster and the slurping grew louder. Kelemvor turned his body away from the noise, then stroked harder and harder as the current spun him around. Finally, he felt himself being pulled back up the stream. The exhausted fighter lowered his head and swam with all his strength. At last, he broke free and continued downstream.

The twisting current had been the edge of a whirlpool, the warrior realized. It had been a small one, or he would never have broken free, but the effort still left him exhausted.

Then Kelemvor remember Midnight.

“Midnight!” he called. “There’s a whirlpool. Swim to the right!” He called this warning over and over again, until at last he could no longer hear the sucking sound of the whirlpool.

Even if she had been close enough to hear the warning, Midnight could have done nothing to avoid the danger. She was too drained to swim or even to pull off her heavy clothes. Her limbs were numb and clumsy with cold and exhaustion, her lungs burned every time she took a breath, and her mind was incoherent with fatigue.

When the stream straightened its course ahead of her, Midnight let herself drift into the center of the channel, relieved for a respite from the turbulent currents. While the slurping sound grew louder, she held her head out of the water and drew ten delicious, uninterrupted breaths. Then, as the water became faster, the fatigued mage pushed her feet downstream—and felt herself spiraling downward.

She had slipped into the whirlpool without realizing what it was, and now she barely cared. Midnight simply held her breath and relaxed as the water carried her away.